


Unspoken

by sidewinder



Category: Brimstone
Genre: M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The devil reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is written entirely for fun and not for any profit. No attempt is made to supersede or infringe upon the copyrights held by any television or film companies upon which this story is based.

I find him sprawled on his bed, watching TV and looking even more morose than usual. Must be the after-affects of his last successful hunt. I was pleasantly surprised to find Alfred Millicent, number twenty-seven of my one-thirteen, knocking on the gates of Hell today. I hear he killed seven children during his return performance here on Earth. I think I shall enjoy finding new ways to make his ever-afterlife as miserable as possible.

But poor Ezekiel, he does look worse for wear. Must be brooding over the fact that he didn't get to Alfred fast enough to stop that last young girl from being led to slaughter this morning. If I were in the mood for it, he'd be ripe for a fine goading right now. I could pick at any of the scabs covering his emotional wounds, watch them bleed anew. I could remind him of all the other demons out there running loose while he sits on his ass, sulking and nursing his guilt. Or I could remind him of all his past sorrows--his wife's brutal rape, his act of vigilante rage that lead him to me, even his continued failure to capture Ash, leaving that bitch to continue planning her own unique Hell On Earth.

I could. But not tonight.

He looks up at the sound of my entrance, sees me but doesn't say anything. He waits for me to speak, but I have no words for him tonight. Soon enough he understands. He knows what I want when I come to him and do not speak, when there are no teasing or taunting words springing forth from my lips. He rises from the bed and walks to me, his expression muted but not quite so morose now. He looks almost relieved that I'm here. Given the state he was in when I arrived, perhaps he needs this right now as much as I do. I would like to think as much.

He stands close and lifts his hands, bringing them up to my face. It's a pleasant, almost worshipful feeling, the way he runs his fingers over my cheeks, across my lips...I like that. As his fingers slide into my hair, I close my eyes and give myself over to the sensation, enjoying the simple pleasure of his warm touch. I could take any soul in my domain and make them my lover, but Ezekiel, his touch is so different...so gentle. The others never seem to think I would want that--there is no place for gentleness in Hell, I suppose. My Ezekiel, though...he is different. He just seems to understand.

The first time I came to him for this, I expected him to resist. But he didn't give even a token struggle as I closed the distance between us and kissed him, as I'd contemplated doing so many times before. It was as if he'd been waiting for me to do it all along, which could very well have been the case. He kisses me now, again with a gentleness that is almost infuriating, at first. Impatience and anger flares within me for a moment but somehow he drains it away; it is lost in the warm, moist depths of his mouth. How long has it been since I came to him for this? A month, almost. Too long.

He breaks the kiss and begins undressing me. My suit jacket falls to the floor, and then he starts to work on my tie. He is naked to the waist already, which I appreciate as it gives me the chance to admire his body while he works. It is a fine body, lean but powerful. I chose well in making him my agent here on Earth, for he is smart, strong, aggressive...sometimes defiant, but controllable. A good man, save for that one moment of passion and rage that led him to damnation.

Too good for me, if I were to be honest. Of course I'll never tell _him_ that.

My shirt, at last, joins the jacket on the floor. Running his hands over my chest, he gives me a questioning look. I answer with a glance down to the floor. Clever boy, it's all the instruction he needs. He sinks to his knees before me. I struggle to hold back a moan as he rubs his hand over the front of my pants. His eyes don't leave mine as he unfastens them. I could simply make all this foolish attire disappear but I rather enjoy making him work for it, savoring these moments of anticipation. He guides my fabric slowly down my legs...very nice. Even nicer is the press of his lips against my thigh, the brush of his stubble against my skin. He teases me but not excessively, knowing not to play games with me for too long. Soon his lips are on my cock. I sigh at the most welcome sensation, the warmth surrounding me, so good. The simple pleasures possible in this human body I wear for him have their definite merits.

I wonder when he learned to do this so well-- certainly it was not during his mortal years on Earth, where he followed a strictly straight and narrow path when it came to carnal delights. I suppose my minions in Hell taught him these things, for one as pretty as he rarely avoids such attentions from my more libidinous demons. I wonder if that is why he gave himself so willingly to me from the start, because he was trained to do this without complaint if he didn't want his suffering increased hundredfold. I like to think it is more because even through his hatred, he cannot deny his desire for me. I could simply look into his mind and find out if wished; for now, I choose not to. Let it stay a small mystery between us.

He's looking up at me, still, and I know he wants a reaction from me--a sigh, a groan, some sign that he's making me lose control. I won't give him that, not yet. I can't let him become too assured of himself and his talents, lest he forget his place as my servant. He won't have me begging for *his* touch--not unless that is a game I decide we shall play, and I'm not certain I can trust him enough for that. I made that mistake, once. I won't do it again.

And so I limit my encouragement to stroking his hair while he pleasures me. I find watching him do this almost more stimulating than the physical sensations. My Ezekiel, kneeling before me, taking me inside him. His lips wet and glistening with saliva, open wide to accept me, to service his master. His eyes, always on me, now bright with his own rising need.

Yes. It's a wonderful sight.

Only a single, sharp gasp escapes my lips when I come. He is the one who moans, as he drinks in the reward for his efforts. I pull him up from the floor and kiss him with no gentleness this time. He aches for his own release, his muscles tensing under my every touch and caress. I could give it to him in any way I desire--even with just the right kiss I could leave him trembling and spent where he stands. My powers may be limited in this world, but I can still do things to him that no mortal could ever imagine.

His skin is damp, so hot under my touch. I push him down onto the bed, on his back, so I can feast upon the sweat covering his skin, lick it from his chest. He tastes of sulfur and blood, demon sweat. He is not so silent now, as I remove the last of his clothing and descend upon his erection. He makes the most delightful sounds--whimpers and moans, so anguished and full of need. I take my time in pleasuring him this night, enjoying seeing him so helpless and abandoned under my touch--and my mouth. I want him to need me, and for tonight he does.

He moans, and to my amusement calls out "Oh, God!" when he comes. What irony. Did you hear that, my Lord? Does it enrage you, or sicken you, to hear your name cried out in passion by _my_ lover? I hope so. I sense Ezekiel is afraid he's angered me with his outburst, for he is suddenly quiet and tense. I stroke his trembling flesh and lick him clean, and soon his fear is lost in the last echoes of his pleasure.

I work my way up his body, until I reach his mouth for one last, lingering kiss. I think I would keep him forever, if I could. Just for this. But every soul he returns to Hell brings him closer to leaving me. I try to lead him to believe otherwise, that his soul is not worthy of redemption and that he was never destined for Heaven, but I'm sure he knows that's not the truth.

I lie down against him, head on his chest, appreciating the momentary satiated peace between us. Still we say nothing, but that is fine. One night, in these quiet moments, I may tell him of the things I think of when we are together like this. Not tonight, for I would have to admit to the solace I find in his arms, and how much I fear I've come to need him. How in moments like this, I feel as close to Heaven and His touch as I have since the day I was cast down into Hell.

No, not tonight.

Ezekiel is drifting asleep now, relaxed, at peace, Alfred Millicent and all the others momentarily forgotten. I have work to do, a million other places to be and torments to inflict, but I wait until I sense he is lost completely into his dreams. I slip from his arms and spend a moment studying his body and my handiwork--the marks that hold him bound to me until he returns the last of my one hundred and thirteen. Before I go, I trace a pattern over his heart, where someday I would like to write one final name.

Mine.

 _End_


End file.
